a Priori
by ChelseaBurger22
Summary: An infamous Manhattan serial killer has been brought into custody. Or has he? Detective Tendo is unwillingly paired with Ranma Soatome: a loathsome, irrational FBI agent... in order to solve the murders still occurring while the murderer sits behind bars.
1. Of Cold Nights and Dark Secrets

_A Priori_

"When you think of the long and gloomy history of man, you will find more hideous crimes have been committed in the name of obedience than have ever been committed in the name of rebellion."

C.P. Snow

It's on cold, sleepless nights like this that I really hate my job. Cold, thanks to the freezing temperatures of New York nights in the wintertime. Sleepless, because of my current state as a nearly bare-assed hooker with heels the height of the empire state building and my conspicuously hunched naked shoulders as I lean against the brick wall at the corner of 147th and Convent. Don't get me wrong, it's an exciting career, but on nights like these…

In the distance, I can hear the delightful cackle of an internally desperate working girl as she literally charms the pants off another business shmuck in the back of his silver convertible such and such. Probably he has a heater in that car. Shit. It had to be about twelve-thirty, the dazzling streets of Manhattan thriving with night life and holiday cheer. At least, I assume they would be celebrating, on another street far away from my little station in the back of an old packaging warehouse.

I try to imagine where he might be right now, willing him to come find me, pick me up… there. What the hell was that? Someone screamed. Probably it was just another girl, having some fun with a customer. After all, some guys were into that kind of shit.

Still.

I knew I shouldn't leave my spot, or else someone might come snatch it up for themselves. Dirty whores. But if it was finally happening; what I've been waiting for… It was worth a look. So gathering myself up as I sneek away into the shadows of the warehouse, I walk away as fast as I dare. Click, click, click. These boots were doing wonders for my stealthy getaway. Brushing the length of my dark ponytail off my shoulder, I near the end of the block and reach subtly into the top of my slut boot. I find what I'm looking for and hit a button on the tiny cellular. The dial tone is silent, the message sent quickly and noiselessly. Poking my head around the corner, I witness one of the many horrors of life. Kinky sex. Albeit, it wasn't what I've been spending the last three weeks waiting for but, it was a crime all the same. At least to a prude like me. Yeah.

With a sigh I turn back in the general direction of my post. Try as I might, I can't lessen the sound of my lethal stilettos against the dirty asphalt floor of the back-alley. I pause for a moment, embarrassed I might be caught watching. As I reach down to unlace the offending articles, the sounds from around the corner cease. A mumbled, "Please. Please don't do this. I'll do anything." And a choked sob that sounds like more of a choke, and less of a sob. Then:

"Glorious St. Michael, Prince of the heavenly hosts, who standest always ready to give assistance to the people of God; who didst fight with the dragon, the old serpent, and didst cast him out of heaven…"

Shit. That sounds familiar.

"… and now valiantly defendest the Church of God that the gates of hell may never prevail against her, I earnestly entreat thee to assist me also, in the painful and dangerous conflict which I have to sustain against the same formidable foe..."

Another pitiful whimper. A scuffling of shoes. My adrenaline spikes and I can feel cold sweat gathering on my nape.

"…Be with me, O mighty Prince! that I may courageously fight and wholly vanquish that proud spirit, whom thou hast by the Divine Power, so gloriously overthrown, and-"

"Let her go you crazy bastard." My voice is tight and furious as I watch the fanatical son of a bitch holding a gleaming wire wrapped around a young girl's tender throat. Being all of fifteen or sixteen, her teenage body is frail and sickly white against the bitter night air. Her eyes are stretched gruesomely wide with a combination of terror and the lack of oxygen entering her lungs.

"Let her go now, or I'll blow your goddam balls off." His face registers alarm, contempt, a myriad of volatile emotions, and I hear his grating voice for the second time that night as he shifts to cover his valuables.

"How dare you use the Lord's name in vain, you dirty whore?" He practically growls as he throws the girl to the ground. I swallow noiselessly, a minute shudder in my throat. My mind races back to when I first set off to track down the scream. Did I place the call? I can't remember. I hold my ground, raising the glistening pistol in a stable hand. My hooker heels grind into the pavement as he approaches. I can't kill him. I can't kill him.

But oh, do I want to. So very badly.

I take this opportunity to study him, the newest and most elusive serial killer to grace the streets of New York since Rifkin. But times were different now; the precincts followed a zero-tolerance policy. It didn't matter that the targets were prostitutes or drug addicts. They were victims. I give him a once over, my gaze taking in a handsome face with dark eyes that have a strange tendency of narrowing and bulging in the same terrifying glower. His tall hairline shows an impressive expanse of forehead and hair the color of wheat. At the moment, his vast brow is furrowed in concentrated hostility while that oddly petrifying gaze burns through my conscious in a searing act of intuition. A pulse throbs violently in his strong jaw, and his hulking hands clench and unclench in bitter frustration.

At this point the girl has figured that she might as well make her getaway while the going is good. She slowly rises to her sandaled feet and turns to run down the dark alley. Giving me one last regretful look, she quietly takes off into the night, her darkly auburn hair whipping in the absolute cold. He gives her retreating form a glance of distaste and turns the full force of his attention on me. His newest embodied sin.

"Put your hands against that wall right there asshole. I'm so ready to shoot you, my fingers are twitching. All I need is an excuse, you hear? You don't want to give me an excuse." There's a drawn out silence while he debates whether to believe me or not. But really, what's not to believe? Who wouldn't want to shoot this guy? He turns and places his hands flat against the brick surface. Darn.

"You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law. You have the right to an attorney…" I recite the Miranda as I roughly slap a pair of cuffs onto his shaking wrists. Something tells me he wasn't trembling out of fear. "And what the _hell_ is so funny?" I yell, pulling him around to face me and shoving his trenched back hard into the wall behind him. My towering five-three petite frame does nothing to send chills into his heart. But the depths of my furious glare penetrate his good humor and his face turns serious at the violence and utter hatred he must see there.

"God will protect me." He recites easily, and I clench my teeth to restrain the bitterness in my heart. His expression is serene, his shoulders relaxed. I shove the barrel of my still-present gun into the soft space between his jaw and throat.

"Not even God can save you from me now."

I sigh in frustrated exhaustion. My hair is dirty, my fingers require amputation on account of frost-bite and zero circulation, and if I get _one_ more snide comment about my attire, someone's going to get a stiletto shoved up there ass. But more importantly, there's a nagging feeling in my gut that tells me there's something not quite right about any of this.

"Well done Akane. We've been looking for this guy since September, and you hauled him in like the pansy-assed religious fanatic that he is." I smile toward my fellow field agent, a handsome man with dark hair and a ridiculous dirty bandana tied around his head. His clothing is mussed, dirty, as if he'd been living in the streets for weeks. Which he had. Ryoga was one of my fellow undercover agents in the investigation and arrest of Benjamin Geoffrey Macpherson, a.k.a. "The Cable Wire Killer". Good old Ben has been on a hooker slaying-spree since early September, roaming backlit streets and prostitution circles every few weeks in order to lure one of the girls off for a session of sex and murder. The papers had immortalized Macpherson in the daily news with the nickname "Cable Wire Killer" on account of the colored cables he used to asphyxiate his victims. What the papers didn't know, and thus the public never found out, was that after the woman was dead, Benjy would often have intercourse with the still-warm corpses. Which I suppose would make it a session of murder, then sex. What we never really understood… was why.

You see, after thoroughly researching Macpherson, (that is, searching his mother's house where 34-year-old Benjamin still currently resided), the NYPD discovered a lot of incriminating evidence. They also became informed of his fanatical religious views, taught to him by his fanatically religious mother, who had evidently been sexually and emotionally abusing poor little Benjy since early childhood. After Mr. Macpherson left a bereft (and still fanatical) Mrs. Macpherson when Benjamin was only four years of age, she took it upon herself to raise her little boy to be the kind of loving man that would never abandon a wife and child. Unfortunately for Benjy, her tactics were a little unorthodox and her religious values a little misconstrued. As a result, that little caterpillar of a boy turned into a degraded, mentally unstable butterfly with a strong sense of religious justice and an even stronger lust for violence.

Some people might hear Benjamin's story and feel sorry for him. I heard Benjamin's story and wanted to kill his mother, right after I offed the Sonuvabitch myself. I have this issue about mothering… well, that's another story. Anyway, from what the profilers could decipher, they figured Benjamin was just trying to hit two birds with one great big bloody stone. By murdering prostitutes and addicts and defiling their corpses, Benjy believed he was fulfilling his imagined duty as a carrier of God's moral will as well as expressing his frustrated sexual and physical anger toward his mother. Go figure. So now the sicko was locked away in a dark room for questioning. All was well in the world of justice. Or was it?

"Ryoga, do you feel anything weird about this case?" I ask, turning toward the man in question with a troubled look that betrayed my inner doubt. He laughed harshly, "Yeah. The sick Bastard was screwing those corpses. What's not to feel weird about?" He grew somber at my expression, his hand reaching to my naked shoulder where the warmth of his skin seeped into my chilled bones. It did little to unthaw the chill in my heart. He asked softly, "What's wrong Akane?"

"No, nothing." I mumble as I draw away from his reach and give him a quick, reassuring smile. Or grimace. I added, "Just seems too good to be true." He smiles back, a little less easily, and I can feel his gaze as I stalk off to find a blanket. I hadn't even registered the chill again until the backup had arrived and carted Macpherson off to the jail. Even then, my nerves were strung so tight on adrenaline and outright anger that they were practically vibrating in my limbs. But now it hit me in an icy blast of unforgiving chill. As I huddle next to a small ambulance to block the wind, I think about the last three weeks. None of those memories were good ones, and just when I was about to internally dissect my insecure feelings regarding the case, a heavy blanket is dropped on my shoulders. Startled out of my thoughts, I whip around to face whoever managed to sneak up on me.

"Whoa there. You looked a little cold. Not that I wasn't enjoying the view or anything." This from one of the most beautiful men I have ever seen in my twenty-six years. With the top of my head just reaching his strong suit-clad shoulders, I had to crane my neck to meet his eyes. And oh, what gorgeous eyes. Blue… or grey. Reminiscent of the sky, only not in the cliché sense. I instantly pictured the brooding clouds that hover ominously before a thunderstorm. Or the darkened color of the sidewalk after you wash your car and the cement has been hosed down. With the strong facial features of a well-proportioned god, and the darkly handsome looks of a troubled man, I was thunderstruck. Awestruck. Any kind of struck you can possibly imagine. And I'm not usually a sucker for good-looking men, believe me. At my continued silence, Mr. Ridiculously-Good-Looking was forced to fill the conversation gap.

"Uh… I understand you were the arresting officer tonight. Good job." I manage a weak nod, a small acknowledgment to his compliment, not so much to my powers of intelligent speech. I pride myself on the fact that my mouth refrained from hanging open and my gaze was undoubtedly one of cool inspection. Or utter shock, but I think anything is better than outright adulation. Finally regaining some semblance of control over basic motor skills, I reach out a hand to the stranger, introducing myself and thus forcing an introduction out of him.

"My name's Ranma Soatome, resident FBI agent, presently. I have a few questions to ask regarding the Macpherson murders if you can just follow me to my car."


	2. Ben, Jerry, & the Stranger in My Bedroom

_A Priori_

"A mind troubled by doubt cannot focus on the course to victory."

-Arthur Golden, _Memoirs of a Geisha _

And just like a great big slap in the face, all traces of idolization were swept from my being. I've had to deal with only one FBI man before, and if I learned anything from that experience it was that NYPD and Government FBI agents were about as compatible as blow-drying your hair in the bathtub. The results were explosive, electric, and often very, very dangerous.

"Hold on a minute Sparky. I'm not ready to answer your questions just yet. I have some _real_ authority to talk to first if you don't mind the wait." My voice is acerbic, my shoulders lifting under the heavy weight of the blanket. Not that I'm not grateful… just not stupid. His friendly smile remains obstinately in place, the only sign of his irritation in the slight narrowing of his beautiful eyes. He lets out a laugh, the sound reaching right into the depths of my being.

"Hate to break it to you, but I'm not really a patient kind of guy." And with that his large hand encircles my upper arm through the blanket, his fingers fully covering the circumference of my skin. For a moment I allow myself to be dragged behind him, his barbaric manhandling tactics causing me an instant's flabbergasted pause. But the moment ends and I dig my ridiculous heels into the dirty asphalt. Before he can register the change in direction, I twist quickly and gracefully out of his grip, the blanket falling in between us as I leave its warm embrace. Stupid, stupid… goose bumps rise immediately with the contact of the frigid air.

He turns to face my heaving form, anger evident in every fuming breathe I take. If you couldn't already tell, I'm not a big fan of manhandling. Or men, but that's another story entirely. Just when I think he's going to come at me with his top-of-the-line, grade-A Government artillery (And I'm not talking about his gun), he surprises me with a charming grin. I'm tempted to ask the jerk just what's so damn amusing when his wolfish gaze gives me a thoroughly degrading once-over. We're at a standstill. I'm too angry to give in to the fact that I'm standing in an indecently short leather skirt and no tummy or leg coverage (in twenty degree weather), and he's in too good of a position to get angry about, well, anything.

"You look cold." Silence.

"You look like an asshole." Silence.

"Tch. Anger." He grins.

"I'll show you anger, you - "

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything Detective." Comes a surprisingly welcome voice from behind me. He may be a classic pervert in every sense of the word, but at this particular moment there is no other pervert I'd rather have come to my rescue. His gravelly old voice pipes up from behind me again, "Boy, give her back that blanket. Didn't I raise you to be a gentleman?" Saotome responds with that same infuriating grin – the one that hasn't left his face since he managed to leave me trapped in the middle of a back alley with only a bustier and a butt band as coverage against the prying eyes of the male investigative department and the glacially cold breeze.

"Sorry Pops. But no, you didn't." He adds as he tosses the cumbersome blanket to me. Only, I'm too busy being shocked to catch it, so it falls heavily at my boot-clad toes. All eyes follow its decent, lingering on said boots. I stutter, "Chief, I- I have to talk to you. Privately." Saotome's gaze leaps back up to my face, an intellectual glint in his stormy eyes.

I've already made up my mind to voice my concerns. After all, the worst that could happen is that the Chief of Police laughs in my rookie face. But I can't help thinking… I nod unconsciously at my own decision. Turning fully to face the Chief, I toss my ponytail once more over my shoulder and clear my throat. "It's important."

The Chief nods, worry becoming apparent in his haggard face. He looks… older. I begin to follow his retreating form until I hear an appreciative cough from behind me. Whipping around, I snatch the blanket off the ground and wrap it around my shoulders, giving the forgotten FBI agent a look that spoke volumes for my offended fury. Then I began to hurry after Genma once more.

* * *

"You think we got the wrong guy?" Genma sputters in astonishment. I hold my shoulders erect, even as I cringe internally. He adds, "But Tendo… you were the one to arrest. I thought you said you caught him in the act. Was this untrue?" I shake my head furiously, urging him silently to feel the same uneasiness that I feel. Something was wrong. So wrong. "Then what's going on?" He asks again.

"Sir, I… I know he was caught, and he fits the profile. Hell, he even said the same damn prayer, but I've been undercover with these girls for almost a month now. If there's one thing I've learned in that time, it's… nothing is ever that easy. And there are differences, like - "

"Enough Akane. You're new here, so I can understand some misgivings on your first takedown. But there is absolutely _no _reason why we should continue this investigation. Why don't you go on home I get some rest? I think you need it." He nods to someone behind me and turns to stride away. I'm about to protest, to call him back, when a heavy hand settles over my partially opened mouth. A deeply attractive voice warns "Let it go Detective", and even though the tone is friendly it leaves no room for argument. That, as well as the hand clamped firmly over my sealed lips.

"I kind of like you this way. You know, quiet." Mr. FBI says jeeringly, and I reach out to lick his palm. I know it's juvenile, but it's too good a chance to pass up. He curses in surprise.

"That's disgusting! What are you, twelve?" He scolds as he wipes his hand on his expensively pressed trousers. I smile sweetly and pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders. Then my amusement vanishes. The lot is nearly empty, all ambulance and police vehicles absent. The only people left are me, Saotome, and the crime scene investigative workers. How the hell was I supposed to get home? My gaze slowly circles the crime scene, landing on a smug Ranma Saotome. Grinning, he asks, "So… need a lift?"

* * *

The drive to my apartment is long, drawn, and torturous. Ranma whistles to a tune that sounds suspiciously like "Que Sera, Sera" while I lean a heavy head against the fogging window and sulk. A shower. That's all I need. That and a box of chocolate the size of Australia. It has literally been weeks since I've tasted chocolate. Or any real food for that matter. This last assignment must have cost me about ten pounds. Tomorrow morning I'll go for a run. Tonight was the night for Ben & Jerry's.

"It's right up here. You can just let me out at the stairs." I add, as he gives the street a precursory glance. The sleek car (who's wondrously expensive brand seems to elude me) pulls to the edge of the sidewalk, stopping on a dime directly in front of the building's lighted stairway. I'm afraid to look over at his dauntingly handsome face. That fear is quickly giving way to anger, however, as I consider the short list of men in my life that I have _ever _had the privilege of being afraid of. That list includes big brand names like God and Santa Claus, but that's about as far as it goes. I make a habit out of being the tough kid on the block. You know, the little tomboy that's too angry about being stuck with the short end of the gender straw to admit that I'm afraid of a silly little thing like sexual attraction.

"I still need to talk to you about Macpherson." He says gravely, and I finally drag my gaze to meet his eyes. I nod stiffly, letting him know without words that I won't make it easy. I reach for the latch, let myself out, and manage an insincere thank-you. Then I hurry up the stairs, aware of his gaze burning a hole in my spine as I walk away.

Once upstairs, I don't stop walking until I've reached my bedroom. As I pull off my shoes, unlace the bustier, and pull up a pair of sweatpants, I take a moment to look at the emaciated stranger in the mirror. She could change her clothes, but she still looked like a world-weary hooker. I shake my head, grab a couple of my finest towels (the ones without bleach stains), and retreat into the shower for the next hour or so. The water is bitingly cold by the time I get out. My reflection is pale, skinny, and exhausted. Funny, that's how I feel too. I pull on the sweatpants and a t-shirt sporting the faded logo for seven up. An old favorite, the front read "Make seven" only to continue on the back with "Up yours". I was nothing if not classy.

* * *

Even as I slouch onto my faded sofa with a pint of frozen corn syrup, dairy product and cookie dough, I know I won't be able to think of anything besides old Benjy. That gnawing on my senses has faded to a dull nibble, but I still can't shake the idea that I arrested the wrong man. I think back to the moment of capture. His back was to me, hands high against the wall as I approached him with a raised gun. He hadn't made an effort to fight me off as I slapped on the cuffs. I pictured is chilly gaze. Smug. Confident in his faith in God. There was nothing out of the ordinary there. I've known my fair share of fanatics and his absolute surety didn't faze me. I return to my delicious tub of heart-attack. My mind shifts to the girl-hooker. The first time, I think, that I began to doubt. Skinny, pale, fiery red hair and regretful eyes… She'd come and gone so quick, it was hard to tell. But I'd bet my badge that I'd seen her before. Now, this didn't really come as a surprise to me since I've been in the company of whores and dealers for the greater part of the last month. But I was almost positive that I'd seen her before my stay in the streets. If only I could remember…

There's a thud behind the door to my bedroom. I suck in my breath, holding it, waiting to hear any other sign of disturbance. Please. All I want is one night of peace. Just one. After several seconds I let my breath go in a relieved whoosh. Still, I'd better keep my gun close. Where had I left it? The kitchen counter. I stand up to retrieve it, raising my hands over my head for a satisfying stretch, when I feel it. A presence.

Bringing my arms down just in time to stave off a hard blow aimed at my shoulder. I let out a strained squeak, ducking in time to avoid a high swinging kick that would have knocked me to the ground. Leaping back and twisting at the same time to see my opponent, all I catch is a figure clad, (predictably) in black. Black muscle shirt, black jeans, black stiff boots, and a knitted mask that covers eighty-five percent of his face. Definitely a man. He was short and relatively slight for a criminal, but there was a telltale bulge in his jeans that was as good a target as any. After being smacked in the forearm by another high-placed kick, I take advantage of his moment of imbalance to catch him where it matters most. He doubles over in pain, eyes squeezing shut, and I almost think it's going to end. Just like that. But like I said earlier, nothing is ever easy.

I near his writhing form in order to knock him out, or cuff him, or something. But just as I am about to make my move, he leaps forward on his toes. A glinting blade slices the air near my head, and I duck forward just in time to avoid certain decapitation. Too late I feel a ripping, and suddenly I'm looking down at my own ponytail of inky locks on the floor. On the floor. As in, not attached to my head. Movement stops abruptly. My eyes widen with utter shock as I feel the ribbon slip from my hair what's left of my gorgeous hair floats to settle gently around my face. I continue to stare uncomprehendingly at the lost mass of my own hair that lies like a desecrated corpse at my bared feet. The enigma in emo has also paused mid swipe, not sure what to make of the sudden change in atmosphere. The air has gone cold around me, and a blind fury breaks out over my vision. I see red, literally, as I imagine this horrible intruder's blood smeared across my tiled kitchen floor where we'd ended up. Anger is generally all-consuming, and mine is no exception.

Growling low in my knotted throat, I whip my head around to see the ugly barber-of-death staring at me in dawning comprehension. Yes, he'd gone too far. No, I didn't believe in second chances or mercy for the enemy. "You killed it", I growl hoarsely as I leap toward his throat with a vengeance, kicking the bewildered man to the ground, I'm straddling him before he has time to cry out. My hands encircle the surprisingly chicken-like neck with a haze floating over my senses. He is going to have to die.

There's a banging on the door. I'm still straddling the Beauty Slasher while his fingers scrape uselessly against my solidly clenched hands. His choking-wheezing noises are the only sound. Except for the damn knocking.

"_Not_… a good time!" I yell scathingly toward the stranger behind door number one. Silence follows for several long seconds, then a loud explosion pretty much takes care of my front door. I should've known. The Land Lord. I hear a delighted cackle and feel a clinging on my chest half a moment. Looking down through the haze I can see none other than Mr. Too-old-to-ask-permission Happosai groping me through my corny t-shirt logo. I shriek angrily and swat the creeper away, momentarily letting go of his throat and my anger toward the intruder and fully directing it toward the little man who looks no better than a shriveled apricot with trousers on. How he could find pants so small is beyond me.

I advance steadily, heaving my anger in and out, coughing over the dusty plaster that's rising in the room like puffs of powdery smoke. He smiles weakly and raises two tiny wrinkled palms before him. "Now, now Akane… You know how I get when I see a pretty girl…" He adds in a conciliatory gesture. My response is a growl, and the old lecher takes that moment to utter the words that would be the death of him. A questioning look widens his eyes with innocence.

"What happened to your hair?"

I shriek and punt him out the sixth floor window into the honking streets of Manhattan. Breathing deeply, trying to reign in my formidable temper, I whip around to find that my victim has fled the premises. Coward. Wearily I make my way toward the kitchen phone. There's a short three-number dial tone, and I'm answered on the second ring with an efficient greeting.

"Hello? Yes, I'd like to report a break-in…"


	3. Hate to Say I Told You So

_A Priori_

"The key is to commit crimes so confusing that police feel too stupid to even write a crime report about them."

Randy Milholland

The next morning came too soon. As I grudgingly pull my limp limbs out of bed, I think about the day ahead of me. One word hangs over my head, whispers in my ear, burns a solid brand on my forehead. PAPERWORK. Every cop's proverbial ball and chain. And I have a _lot _thanks to my late night visit and the weeks I've been away on assignment. Boy, but life is swell. Am I right? Of course I am.

My shower is tragically short. The thought brings me back to the issue of my hair, which I have no way to correct until I get off work. Maybe during my lunch break. My brain sizzles with the raw anger that still overwhelms me when I think of last night. It took me _years_ to grow out my hair and maintain it. It was childish, but it's turned into a kind of safety blanket for me. I may try to act tough with the boys, but I sure as hell don't want to look like one of them.

Without pausing to look at my reflection for fear of breaking down, I grab my clothes for work and struggle into them while simultaneously trying to shove breakfast into my mouth. The result is disastrous, but I give myself an A for exerted effort. Grabbing my papers and my keys, I race down the stairs and into the wonderful streets of Manhattan. Only to realize I forgot my pantyhose and my legs from the knees down are bare. Whoops. And continuing on my way...

* * *

It's been hours since my grand entrance. As soon as I had walked into the department, I was mobbed by a huge swarm of sycophantic male admirers in the bodies of oversized slobbering police officers. It wasn't until I shouldered my way to my desk that I saw Hojo, my partner in anti-crime. He smiled pleasantly, and deep-seated relief washed over his features until I almost felt glad to be back. Almost. As the salivating pack of wolves slowly dissolved to a few dwindling admirers, Hojo stood gracefully and approached my chair. I had smiled up at him and he had placed a gentle hand on my head, like he would a dog. If I hadn't been used to it, I would have been sorely offended. It was just part of who he was. He ruffled my hair playfully and asked, "So what's with the new cut? I thought you liked your hair long." I glared at him through the uneven layers floating in front of my eyes and didn't respond.

At that point Ryoga and Ukyo had wandered over. Ukyo gave me a quizzical look of semi-disgust, and Ryoga gave me a toothy grin. I was the first to speak. "Okay, okay. So there were a couple casualties last night. One of them was the Landlord. The other was my hair." Ryoga's grin widened, while Ukyo's expression took on a worried look. I looked up at Hojo, who's eyebrows had lowered over solemn eyes. I shrugged, "What? It was just a little break in. The guy was a wuss." Ukyo shook her head, disbelief making her brows rise. She asked, "Well you're getting it fixed right? I know a great place down the street…" I waved my hand in dismissal, "I'll get it cut during my lunch hour. No worries."

We conversed for several moments until the Chief had wandered in, a look of utter despair replacing his normally goofy expression. The room fell silent. Even the phones seemed to have stopped ringing. He strode into his shuttered office and closed the door cleanly, leaving the rest of us to wonder what dragged the big man down.

It's nearly my lunch hour by now, and just as I'm about to swivel around to ask Hojo if he wants to take a break, the front door to the station opens and a new kind of silence washes over the crowd from the 31st precinct. A strikingly beautiful redhead in a ridiculously masculine business suit pushes open the door and glances swiftly around the room. Her blue silk tie is hanging loosely around her neck and her charming gray button down shirt is damply clinging to her every voluptuous curve. The men are star struck and in love while the women are struggling with simultaneous feelings of disgust at her poor clothing choice and envy at her obvious charms. I am neither, instead feeling weary as a strange sense of familiarity washes over me.

The redhead strides purposefully toward the chiefs door, not even bothering to ask the front secretary for her permission. Not like it would have done any good seeing as how the majority my coworkers were incapable of speech, intelligent or otherwise. The door is thrown open and she marches inside, none the lady. Then it is ceremoniously slammed shut. Silence.

I plop back down into my tweed-like chair and wait. We all wait. Muffled yelling is heard coming from the depths of the office, one shrill, the other baritone. Soon even they fall quiet. There is such a stunning lack of activity in our anticipation that the ticking of the clock at the back of the station can be heard distinctly. The door opens carefully and a collective breathe is sucked in. Genma peeks his head through the door and looks directly at me. I swallow stiffly.

"Detective Tendo, I need you in my office immediately." I nod, my throat constricted from an overload of nerves. Leaving my blazer to sprawl across the top of my desk, I rise and make my way to his office with the accompaniment of my legs swishing beneath the pencil skirt I'm sporting and the feeling of hundreds of eyes on my back. The door is closed solidly behind me.

A kettle of tea is being heated in a corner of the office and the stunning redhead is leaning sullenly against the whitewashed wall. With her arms crossed broodingly over her abundant chest and her eyebrows drawn together over her beautiful gray eyes, she looks more like the petulant cherub than the cause of such an inter-office uproar. I step further into the room while Genma heads over to the tea, testing the warmth with his hand on the side of the kettle. No one speaks, and I dare to show my impatience by asking, "Is something the matter Sir?" The redhead's eyes leap to my face and her drawn brows rise while Genma picks up the kettle and brings it toward her. I feel nervous, frustrated, worried, and self-conscious. Why wasn't anyone talking?

"Try not to make a mess boy. I just had the carpet cleaned." I stare openly at this exchange, not knowing what to think of either Genma's obviously incorrect assessment of this woman's gender, or her easy acceptance of it. She turns her gaze to my bewildered one and says simply, "We don't have a lot of time. It's easier if I just show you." I nod comprehendingly, even though I haven't the faintest clue what she means. To my very astonished eyes, she raises the tea kettle above her head and up-ends it upon her already damp red locks. If that weren't already enough reason for me to turn around and leave the office confines, something inexplicable begins happening that I can't even begin to fathom. The petite woman who stood nearly three inches shorter than me was beginning to grow before my very eyes. I watch in utter astonishment as her shoulders widen, her chest flattens (a feat in and of itself) and her hair darkens. Within forty-five seconds the once short, voluptuously beautiful red head had turned herself into… Ranma.

I inhale. I exhale. I inhale. I exhale. This seems to be the only complex activity I'm capable of continuing. Once again, Ranma Saotome has taken my breath away. Since I'm unable to contribute to any semblance of conversation, the room remains tensely silent. Ranma remains leaning nonchalantly against the wall, looking stubborn, wet, and beautiful. Even from my distracted (if not flabbergasted) standpoint, I can tell that his cavalier attitude is nothing more than an act. His shoulders are tense and his eyes are hard. Challenging. And yet, my throat remains strangely constricted. Genma watches from across the room, I can feel the intensity of his gaze on my expression. I clear my throat. A strange wheezy noise escapes my lips. I try once more out of pure stubbornness.

"I… that is, can I ask what… this is about?" The throaty inquiry is not exactly demonstrative of my excellent coping skills, but I pride myself on holding back a splutter and a shriek. And maybe some arms waving, leg kicking, and other various acts of insanity. Genma hold silent for a moment before clearing his throat as well. He starts in gravely, "Ms. Tendo, there has been a series of occurrences since early this morning that have led us to consider the- "

"We brought in the wrong man. The Cable Wire Killer is still on the streets." Ranma cuts in before Genma can stall any longer. His voice is hard and cutting, a pulse in his jaw ticks with barely restrained fury. I begin to shake my head before recalling the ominous foreboding I had experienced the previous night. Ranma sees the change in my thoughts and nods once, sharply.

" I see. You know for certain then? What's happened?" I ask in a revealingly bewildered manner, although my voice is clear and my thoughts surprisingly active. I knew it. I just KNEW it. I vaguely acknowledge Ranma pushing off the wall and walking toward the one window in the office. His back is to me, but his voice is distinctly icy as he bites out, "Yes. Two more murders occurred last night while we all slept off a hard day's work." I'm drawn in by the bitter edge to his words. I forget my previous inhibitions and immediately focus in on the implication.

"Two murders? He's stepped up his game." My remark has him turning from the window to look me square in the eye. Dangerous is the word that comes immediately to mind. He replies with an edge of inward-directed anger, "He's mocking us. He wants to show us just how much we fucked this one up." I nod, unable to disagree and even less able to offer comfort. I ask tentatively, "So… what does this have to do with me?" It sounds impudent, but there's no other way for me to get to the point. Ranma turns the full force of his hazy grey gaze on me, intensity burning in every shadow of his expression.

"You're my partner for the extent of this investigation. He has to be stopped."


	4. Chivalry Isn't All That's Dead

Chivalry Isn't All That's Dead

_"In the torment of the insufficiency of everything attainable we eventually learn that here, in this life, all symphonies remain unfinished."_

_- Karl Rahner_

It's impossible to explain the myriad of emotions that wrung out my nervous system and resonated in my chest during our car ride from the station to a back alley somewhere near Harlem. Not only had the Killer upped the body count, he was also expanding his hunting grounds. Now as I sit in the passenger seat of Ranma's expensive government owned vehicle and stare out the water-streaked glass to the busy streets of Manhatten, I ponder how to broach the subject of his seemingly random sex changes. As his partner, it was something I needed to know right? From a professional standpoint? Curiosity never ended well, as I've learned from previous experience. Which is an entirely other story altogether.

I'm only partly aware of the gentle soloist playing from the top quality speaker next to my right calf, expensive music for an expensive car and a man of obviously expensive tastes. From the corner of my eye I trace his strong profile and wonder who would be stupid enough to challenge this man. His perpetually clenched jaw is square and powerful, his long nose Grecian in its elegant strength. The braid at the back of his neck is silky looking and heavy in its dark arrangement. And his eyes were… chilling. Brutally cold while simultaneously burning with an anger so consuming that it never left the forefront of his conscience. I feel nothing but pity for this killer who only has so much courage to kill women he thinks no one will miss. Turning my head back to the window in time to watch the streets disappear behind looming brick walls on either side, I inhale fully and let out the calming breathe in a whooshing expelling of emotion. I don't know if I'll survive the crime scene without embarrassing myself. I've survived them before, but I have to prepare myself each time just the same.

Wordlessly, Ranma pulls the keys from the ignition and flips them in his palm. I can feel his eyes on me and debate whether to turn around or wait until he speaks first. Before I have time to come to a decision, I feel the large calloused palm of the man beside me on my shoulder. Warmth spreads under his touch and I turn instantly to meet his intense gaze. Too instantly. He's closer than I thought, and I bump my head painfully against his chin. "Yowch!" I yelp as I pull back to rub my forehead. I stutter as a warmth blossoms across my cheeks, "I-I'm so sorry! I was surprised- I'm…" My splutter trails off at the look on his face. Although still strained, his expression has warmed and a grin has stretched his normally solemn expression. I smile in response, a silly, giddy emotion bubbling up in my chest and I giggle. He laughs attractively while rubbing his chin and grimacing.

"I knew you were hard-headed." He adds, and I shake my head at his lame humorous attempt. For a moment, we sit pleasantly and smile at one another. The dark interior of the car from the gloom outside and the soft pattering of rain on the closed windows create a strange sense of intimacy that has a frown blooming on his otherwise handsome face before long. He shakes his head slightly; a look of disbelief on his face that I assume was directed inward. His expression tightens and seriousness settles over the previous intimacy. As I watch his brows draw together my own heartbeat quickens in remembering where we are. He starts out slowly, "Ms. Tendo…"

"Akane" I intercede, my voice solid even as my eyes lower to the car divider between us. "Akane", he repeats quietly, "There are a few things we need to discuss before we head to the scene." I nod, waiting for him to continue and not able to imagine what he means to say. His large hands grasp air and release in a restless gesture against the steering wheel. Curiously, I raise my eyes to meet the full intensity of his gaze.

"About the incident at the station. You know, when I… well, changed? I just wanted to tell you that I'm… I'm sorry." I blink in concentration. Sorry for what? Before I have the chance to voice my curiosity, he continues, "I shouldn't have been so abrupt. It's a hard thing to understand under the best circumstances, and with the way I dropped it on you I'm surprised you didn't break out of the office in a screaming frenzy. You… handled it very well." I nod, clear my throat, manage a small "thank you."

" And also… with this case, I hope you realize how high of a priority this is for us to wrap up. The fact that the system messed up so royally by bringing in the wrong guy…" He stops, maybe realizing his mistake just a little too late. I feel my eyebrows lift and a bitterly acidic feeling begins to gnaw at my stomach. When I speak, my voice sounds scratchy, unused.

"You think this is my fault, don't you? These women wouldn't have died if it weren't for me and my fraudulent act of heroism last night." My eyes burn, not from grief but from anger. I struggle to regain composure, even as the facts sink in and I realize that probably this whole thing really was caused by me. I'm such a rookie. If only I was better at my job. If only I knew, even for a second, what I was doing here. My anger recedes in a tide of guilt and insecurity. If only.

Maybe he realizes that nothing he says to me will change the way I'm thinking, or maybe he agrees, because he doesn't respond. He turns back to the steering wheel, his gaze staring hard out of the fogged windshield and I can only imagine what's going through his mind. Without further hesitation, I grab the handle and push open the car door. I'm hit immediately with a gust of powerfully freezing wind, and goose flesh raises in multitudes down my legs and beneath the arms of my jacket. Should've worn pants. Of course I'd pick today to dress like a girl.

I run my already stiff fingers through my hair as I wait for Ranma to follow suit. Half a second later he emerges from the warm interior of the car with an umbrella in one hand and his other hand buried in his pocket with his keys. The rain has stopped momentarily, and I wonder just how much water it takes to turn him. Will I be working with another woman on this case, or the Ranma who stands here now? I hate to be a pessimist, but it's already difficult enough being a woman on the police force. Even though we've had voting rights for over ninety years and have pushed various equality movements in the working world, as far as the crime system goes women were usually on the bottom of the food chain. Imagine how hard it would be to get people to take us seriously on this case if both of us are female. It could be done, I've found. It just makes everything take longer. And time is something we had already run out of.

* * *

The remains are out, and I can't stop a shiver from coursing down my spine. Ranma catches the movement out f the corner of his eye, and shrugs out of his coat before handing it over. He grunts, "Use this", and I'm too proud to tell him that I'm not shivering from the cold. I nod my thanks and grab it out of his outstretched hand before pulling it on. It's already warmed, and there's a distinct male scent to the jacket that has nothing to do with cologne. Although the sleeves engulf my hands and I know I look ridiculous and unprofessional, it feels too good to reject the chivalrous act. Who would have thought of Ranma as a gentleman? Not me, that's for certain.

There's a cloth rustling at my heeled feet and I drag my eyes back to the body now being re-covered with the bag. Crouched next to me is what I assume to be our resident forensic anthropologist making her initial study of the deceased victims. She looks up, first at Ranma and then myself. Gesturing to a now-dried stain on the victims dress, she recites matter-of-factly, "bitter almonds". Even as I remain completely dumfounded by her statement, I register Ranma's sharp intake of breath as he bends over the corpse to examine the stain. He sniffs at it delicately and turns his head to face the woman.

"I don't smell anything besides some kind of wine." The woman stands up, peeling away her non-powdered latex gloves and tossing them into the nearby trashcan while watching both of us closely for some kind of signal. I don't know what's going on. So I wait. She brushes off the knees of her trousers to no avail and straightens her disarranged ponytail before extending a hand of greeting to me. I take it as she introduces herself lightly, "Dr. Akari Unryu, Forensic Anthropologist in association with the FBI. I was called several hours ago to examine the bodies of two female victims and determine approximate time of death, cause of death, etc." She continued to pump my hand gently, lifting her eyebrows in inquiring expectation. I can feel the corner of my mouth lift slightly at her eager efficiency. Despite the gravity of the situation, I smile. "akane Tendo with the NYPD. I've been assigned to this case by Agent Soatome-" I'm abruptly cut off by the interruption of a remarkably piercing girlish squeal.

"THE Akane Tendo? Oh my gosh, I've heard so much about you from Ryoga! Or, that is, Detective Hibiki. He really admires you. It's so nice to finally meet you." There's a subtle throat clearing behind me, and we both turn mid handshake to meet Ranma's sardonic gaze. "Dr. Unryu, I don't mean to seem impatient, but we are in the middle of a very serious ongoing case. Time is, unfortunately, short." I turned back in time to see a pretty pink flush come over her cheeks as she, too, cleared her throat and dropped my limp hand. I had thought I was confused before. I don't know how to explain my state of mind at this point.

Suddenly Dr. Akari Unryu was all business. Her brow creased in some kind of agitation and her lips compressed as she pondered her explanation. She began slowly, "Upon examining the victim I found several implications of struggle, although most suggested they were from many days prior to her death. As you can see…" she gestured over the neck area where several gruesome looking bruises encircled the pale skin there, "There are obvious signs of pressure and strangulation around the esophagus that are consistent with the Cable-Wire's previous victims. The victim's hue also suggests the cause of death is strangulation. However, upon searching the victim's clothes and personal possessions for identification, I noticed this stain on her dress, as if she spilled some kind of liquid, in this case a type of red wine, on the lap of her dress.

"There is a lingering scent of bitter almond, usually associated with cyanide poisoning and very distinctive in its odor from regular almonds as bitter almonds do actually contain a certain amount of cyanide in them. " She paused as Ranma began to shake his head slowly. He argued, "But there was no scent when I checked the body. And it doesn't fit with the killer's HMO. It doesn't make sense."

Dr. Unryu held up a tiny hand to signal our attention. She shook her head as well, "The ability to recognize the scent of cyanide is a genetic trait. It's mostly found in women, like me, and I wouldn't expect you to be able to discern it by yourself." She paused, her eyes searching the blank unseeing gaze of the corpse. "As far as it not fitting with the killer's usual routine, that's something for you to figure out. From an anthropological standpoint, I'd deduce that the killer attempted to simplify his killing strategy. He may be trying to convince himself that he's growing as a predator and it's time to sophisticate his technique. It is obvious, from what I can understand from her inflicted wounds that she died while digesting cyanide in one of its various forms. Although cyanide is known for its quick results when the dosing is high enough, it's possible that the killer panicked and tried to strangle her if he didn't believe she was dying fast enough." I couldn't help it, I felt my breath hitch. This monster was _evolving_?

I bent next to the woman spread upon the asphalt. There was a slight rustle and one of her hands fell to the pavement. Falling back on my rear end, I let out a distinctly unprofessional squeak before scrambling to my feet. I suppose it was a testament to my humanity that I'd visited dozens of murder scenes and still couldn't stomach the experience. To me, though, it just feels like failure.

* * *

My mind is still hovering over the painful reality of these women's deaths when we reach the car. Ranma reaches a hand in front of me to grasp the door handle and hold it open for me as I climb into the passenger seat. His oversized jacket is still about my shoulders and I pull the lapels together to hold out the chill and hold in my emotions. My chest is tight with anger or depression, and the very backs of my eyes burn with the inescapable need to cry for them. Some professional I was. But I wouldn't cry in front of Ranma. Nothing in the world could ever make me do that. He slides behind the wheel on the driver's side and puts the key in the ignition. Silence descends upon us as he watches me watch the condensation roll down the window. After what seems like hours but couldn't have been longer than a minute or two, Ranma speaks up.

"Akane…" his voice is gravelly, as if he hasn't spoken in awhile. I ignore the obvious concern in his tone and answer instead "I need to change my clothes. I would appreciate it if you would take me home." We look at each other for another stretch of indeterminate time, his gaze searching, mine undoubtedly neutral. With a jerk of his head (what I can only assume is a nod), the engine roars to a start and we're heading down the road fast enough to chase away the feelings of inadequacy and desperation. Almost.


	5. Because Bribery Only Gets You so Far

A Priori

_"…We are put down, beaten up, and left for dead._

_It hurts body and soul and messes with a person's head._

_Many of us get high. Don't you understand it's a way of getting by?_

_The Life is rough. The life is tough._

_We are easy to blame because we are lame. –Piper, 1987"_

- "Conformity and conflict", _Fieldwork on Prostitution in the Era of AIDS_

I spent the entire night puzzling over new evidence. Despite what Dr. Unryu had told us, I found it difficult to believe that the killer would choose now of all times to change his rituals out of sheer confidence. From what little I knew about criminal psychology (which, given, wasn't very much) it seemed too early for behavioral changes. After everything that had happened the night before, one would think he would want us to be able to easily recognize his victims. It was some kind of message. But what, if anything, did he mean by it?

* * *

After Ranma had dropped me off, I came back to change into some casual clothes and headed over to the street I had occupied for the last several weeks as a working girl. I parked my car alongside a group of girls I recognized, their heavy-handed makeup and indecent outfits not surprising to me. I paused a moment to gather my courage and harness any persuasive power I possessed. It was going to be tough to get anything out of them, which is why I couldn't have brought Ranma. He wasn't the kind of guy to put up with any kind of illegal activity, and prostitution although popularly practiced, was still against the law. I didn't want the girls feeling threatened, as they were already accustomed to be suspicious and wary of outsiders. It had taken me almost the entire time I'd been there to gain any kind of trust, let alone rapport. No, I knew from experience that this was going to be about as easy as de-clawing an entire mob of fully coherent tigers.

I roll down my heavily tinted window and waited for one of the girls, Diane, to lean her elbows against the sill and stick her head part way in. My hair is shorter, my face devoid of makeup, and there was no way she could recognize me behind the large shapes of my sunglasses. I inhale, getting a strong pull of her heavily flowered perfume as I tilt the sunglasses down my nose with the hand I didn't have placed on the wheel. I hear her sharp intake of breathe as she recognizes me. Diane and I, we had been tentative roommates during the daytime when there hadn't been much business. Most of the girls hadn't noticed my lack of enthusiasm when it came to snagging customers, but Diane had called me out one night while we stood in below-freezing weather under the eerie orange glow of a street lamp.

"What the hell are you doing here Bunny (I had to give a fake name and that's the least respectable thing I could think of on short notice)? I never see you workin' your corner and you're so damn quiet. The only time I ever hear your nosy little voice is when you're asking the girls questions. All those questions. Nobody asks personal questions around here, 'cept you. It's shady business, that's all I'm saying." I was speechless for a moment, not knowing how much to tell her to keep her trust and to keep her quiet. She hadn't said it in a vicious way, just a little annoyed, like I was some human anomaly she couldn't fit into her take on the human race. I gave an easy shrug and replied, "I'm new to this kind of thing Diane. Besides, it leaves more for you and the other girls anyways right?" She thought about it for a moment before nodding, even as the suspicious tilt of her eyebrow remained. "Alright." And the subject was dropped.

Looking at her now, I study the tight stress lines around her mouth and eyes, noting the pallor of her skin beneath the powdery surface of her foundation. Goose bumps rise on her slim arms as she comes in contact with the heat coming from the vents on the dashboard. Her brows draw together over troubled eyes as she hisses, "What the _hell_ are you doing here?" Her reprimand is low and I hear the traces of her smoking years in the rasp of her rich voice. I reach over to lift the manual lock on the passenger door. Meeting her gaze straight on, I add, "Hop in." Immediately she rears back with a look of disgust present on her once-pretty features. "No way." Her body is rigid in its resistance and I add softly, "Come on Di, I'm not going to arrest you or anything. We'll go somewhere and I'll buy you coffee. I just need to talk." Her face is immobile and unreadable, but I know she's thinking about it. I wait patiently as she looks at me through scathingly old eyes. Finally she sighs heavily and pulls open the door with a jerk. "Fine", she says, "but I want a donut too." And I grin privately at the undercurrent of relief in her voice as the door closes and we pull out into the street.

* * *

"Yeah, we heard about them other girls last night. One of the pimps was spittin' pissed cuz they were two of his best workers. After all of the excitement with you and that crazy son of a bitch, we were real surprised since we thought you'd got 'em. No one thought anything of it until word got out that the suits were checking out the area earlier this morning. Mm." She broke off as she took a bite from the donut I'd gotten her. I wasn't against bribing for information, and Diane wasn't the type to discourage it either. The way her life went, 'take what you can get' was a life lesson and her own personal mantra. I nodded, sheepish in my new role as the oppressor. Because that's what I was in her eyes. Even though I'd spent a decent amount of time walking in her shoes the past couple of weeks, there was still a cultural barrier between us that developed from our separate circumstances. I had had a good life growing up. A strong family, a regular income, and a heavy dose of affection from all directions. Diane had had none of those things. I understood this on a visceral level, but there were personal things that we would never be able to understand about each other.

"So what do you want from me Bunny? That's not your real name either, I'll bet. But I don't care, that's what I'm callin' you. I don't wanna know your real name." I nod, not understanding beyond the idea that she feels betrayed from my sudden switch to the dark side, and she doesn't want to have to think about me or my life of comfort any more than she has to. Comfort was something she knew she would never have. If misery loves company than good fortune is something to be suffered in solitude. On impulse I reach across the short table to grasp the top of her hand. Her head whips up and her eyes meet mine with a combination of shock and suspicion. I withdraw my hand and add lightly, "Bunny's a lot cuter than anything I've been called before, believe me. Want another coffee? I'm not going to finish this sandwich; will you eat it so I don't have to throw it out?" The suspicious eyebrow tilt is back and she smiles knowingly while pulling the offered plate toward her chest protectively. "If I have to." She adds and I smile.

Suddenly we become serious and I decide now is the time to get down to the real reason I was there. "The other night, I came across a man and a young girl having, er, sexual relations." Diane gave me a look that said something along the eloquent lines of "Duh". I clear my throat and continue as if I haven't noticed, "The man was under suspicion of attempted murder, a suspect in the ongoing case I am currently assigned to." This is an unpleasant reminder to Diane, who's eyes flicker downward and to the left, as if she can't meet my gaze any longer. I continue, even as I watch the tense lines of her jaw harden further. "Unfortunately it has come to our attention that we have taken the wrong man into custody and the killer is still very much free to continue his… practice." I pause for effect, noticing her eyes flickering to my face as I reveal more about the case than I know I should.

"You have to be careful, Di. This guy is dangerous, and he has no qualms about taking a life." Diane snorts inelegantly and gives a stiff shrug in the failed gesture of nonchalance, "Why'd you have to go and use big words like that? 'Qualms'? Sounds like a tree or something." I snort and shake my head ruefully. We both know she got half way through college as a linguistics major before she had to drop. She probably knew nuances of the English language that I'd never be privy too. Not to mention Latin, Greek, Russian, and God knew what else. Why she had to leave has as yet been a mystery to me. All I know is that there is a lot of ruined potential in these girls, and there wasn't a damn thing to be done about it. The thought weighed on my conscience. These women weren't bad people. They were hurt people, ruined people, but not bad people. It's my fault that bastard's still out there, and if we don't find him soon…

* * *

"So what you want to know then Bunny? I doubt you came here for hair advice… even if you need it." Diane adds as she flips my roughly shorn locks. I haven't had time to get it fixed yet. We're nearing the intersection before her apartment where we both decided mutely was the best place to take her. Didn't want any of the girls getting suspicious. The heaters on so high that my clothes feel heavy with static and my knuckles are drying. I'm irritated, my senses rioting claustrophobically in the small car and the dry, overbearing heat. But Diane is cold, her bones chilled to the point where she may never be warm again. For women like her, being cold wasn't a symptom, it was a lifestyle. It wasn't something that could be solved in an alley with another warm body let alone a few minutes in a heated vehicle.

"I want you to think hard for me. Think, Di. Isn't there anyone who might have seen this guy? He's a freaking serial killer, you know? He's got to be a regular. Can you remember anyone who looked suspicious?" I risk a glance at her profile, watching her watch the world pass at hyper speed through the car window. She laughs shortly, without mirth. "Hell, that explains just about every man who comes here. You know that by now Bunny. None of these men are exactly saints." Her jaw clenches, and I can tell she's nervous. It's finally registering, the fact that maybe she's not as safe as she liked to think. Sure, 'safe' was a relative term. Something a prostitute might consider a regular night might seem like a nightmare to a regular person. But she hadn't had to worry about serial killers before. Not ones that targeted her home, her people.

"There's one guy I know about. A real creepy-type, you know? He's so regular the man's got a schedule. Every Wednesday the jerk stops by at maybe one-thirtyish. He never drives here; I don't think he's got no car. But he brings this classy little briefcase and he's always wearing a suit all business-like. Name's… Carl I think. Or Paul. I dunno." We pull up in front of the decrepit redbrick that I shared with her for my cover. I remember the old, dirty hallways and the persistent stink of marijuana and God knew what else that wafted suspiciously from under door frames and down the stairwell in clouds of thick smoke. I used to hold my breath when I headed up to our third-story room, afraid I would get high just walking past my neighbors' doors.

I turn the key in the ignition, silent as the car heaves into silence. Diane doesn't move to unclick her seat belt. She's home. I bring a light hand to her shoulder, just barely grazing her leather-covered shoulder to bring her attention back to our conversation. My voice is calm, detached. I'm questioning a potential witness. "Why this man? Have you seen anything? Heard anything from the other girls?" Diane blinks, hesitates for a moment. Too long. She knows something. "Please Diane. I want to keep you safe." Suddenly her wide-eyed expression of vulnerability turns harsh and a bitter cough of laughter escapes her. She releases the seat belt, opening the door with practiced grace and determination. Before going into the redbrick, she turns to my opened window, leans in, and brushes a calloused hand under my chin.

"Honey… ain't nothing you can do to keep a whore safe."


	6. Locks: Not Just a Door Decoration

_A Priori_

"To argue with a man who has renounced the use and authority of reason is like administering medicine to the dead."

- Thomas Paine

I unlock my apartment door with a curse and a jangling of keys while I juggle several open grocery bags from my trip to the store. Pushing open the door, I shove aside a coat rack and various other articles that had been disrupted in the break-in the night before. I toss my purse onto the counter-top and set the groceries by the sink to be sorted and put away later. As I step through the doorway to my bedroom I simultaneously pull my blouse over my head and shed my skirt until I'm walking around in only my panties and bra. Heading to my bathroom to start the shower, I gently tousle my newly shorn locks. My hair, once long and healthy, has been professionally trimmed to a short, fluffy bob thanks to the idiot the other night that made it necessary for a coiffure makeover. My new style was cut courtesy of my eldest sister and personal barber, Kasumi, to whom I neglected mentioning the reason behind my recent hair-icide.

Returning from my thoughts, I watch the bathroom windows fog from the shower's billowing steam and reach back to the clasp of my bra. Suddenly, I hear a disturbance coming from the other room. Well, _hear _is maybe the wrong word. It's more like I can _feel_ movement coming from just beyond the bedroom. Cautiously, I step out into said bedroom, already dreading my decision to investigate instead of locking myself in the bathroom and crying. Wasn't one break-in per week enough? Did this really have to be a daily occurrence? I grab my spare gun from under my mattress, a small number I keep around for instances like this one (because as an officer of the law, it's part of my survival technique to be paranoid). I feel vulnerable and unprepared in my cotton panties and bra, but lucky for me a gun goes a long way in making a girl feel invincible. I feel another twinge of acknowledgement as whoever's invaded my home makes a quiet movement in the room adjacent to my bedroom. Silently, I pad to the opened door that leads into the living area, gun arm erect and senses tingling. I catch a shifting shadow in my peripheral and shout "Don't you dare move!" while pivoting and pointing the small gun at the intruder.

"Jesus! Watch where you're pointing…" The muffled voice dies off.

Ranma. He's standing behind my kitchen counter with both hands held up in a staying gesture and one of my newly purchased apples held between his teeth. After trailing off in the middle of his sentence, he takes in the sight before him. And what a sight I must have been. Nearly naked, fuzzy-headed, with a ridiculously small handgun hanging from my slackened grip and an equally slack-jawed expression. I can feel myself flush dramatically as embarrassed heat rises up from my toes. Officer training never prepared me for this kind of situation, and I'm paralyzed by my own chagrin.

Ranma's expression changes instantly from one of shock to one of honest amusement. He barks out a surprised laugh, his hands still raised in surrender. The apple falls forgotten to the counter. My arm that grasps the gun drops weakly to my side and calmly (I hope), I back into my bedroom and gently close the door. I can hear Ranma's amused laughter through the thin barrier of my wall as I wrap myself in my cotton robe. I honestly can't explain to you the emotions running through me at that point, or what I'm thinking to myself. I open the door separating us, grab a mostly-full glass of water off of my nightstand, and chuck it with anger-induced force at Ranma's face. Had he not been distracted by his own amusement, he may have been able to avoid the projectile. As it is, the glass hits him square in the forehead, knocking his head back and emptying the entire cup's contents onto his nice suit. Within seconds, Ranma is a woman. Oops.

"What the hell was _that_ for?" She sputters, rubbing her bruised forehead in pained anger. You know how I said earlier that I couldn't explain what I was feeling? Well, now I can. As if a switch in the emotional part of my brain has been suddenly and shockingly flicked back on, my control dissipates in a wave of harassed fury. I clutch the lapels of my buttermilk-colored bathrobe tightly in front of my chest and stomp over to the counter across from where Ranma is glaring at me. The short, cute little red-head has one hand on her forehead and one hand placed aggressively on her hip. If I took the time to consider the fact that there was a near stranger who happened to be a sex-changing FBI agent standing across from my almost-naked self (in my supposedly locked apartment, no less), I might freak out. However, true to Akane Tendo form, I choose to ignore all of these peculiar facts in favor of giving Mr. Ranma Soatome the verbal tongue-lashing of his young crime-fighting life.

"I can't _believe_ you even have the nerve to act offended right now! You want to know why I threw a glass at your face you pervert?" I yell, reverting mostly to what can only be described as five-year old behavior. Female Ranma's eyes widen at my approaching tantrum, all wounded indignation wiped from her pretty little face. She's never seen me angry before. Not _really _angry anyways. It must be fairly overwhelming, but I refuse to pause in my tirade.

"You _broke_ into my apartment, _stole _my food, and watched me parade around what was supposed to be a locked apartment mostly naked! And then you _laughed_ you jerk! Obviously being a half-woman hasn't taught you anything about the female psyche or you wouldn't have _laughed_. You're lucky I just threw the glass and not the whole damn nightstand, because that was my next choice!" Ranma's still watching me with the same bewildered headlights-plus-deer expression. When I take the chance to inhale, his expression clears and his cute little feminine nose wrinkles in disgust. She asks, aghast, "_Pervert_? Who's a pervert? How was I supposed to know you walk around your apartment with no clothes on? And besides, it's not like there's anything I haven't seen before." She pauses, putting a delicate finger to her chin and raising her gaze to the ceiling, pondering.

"Actually, I'd say I'm a lot cuter than you. So really you have nothing to worry about because I'm not interested." Ranma adds in a cheerfully exuberant voice. My only answer is silence, and I can feel my fingers twitching in barely restrained hostility.

You know how, sometimes mid-argument you can't help thinking you'd feel so much better after hitting something? Well, I never do things half-measure. I grab the felled coat rack next to my door, swinging it heavily and efficiently at Ranma and growling in animal frustration when she evades it easily. To my dismay, the top of the rack swipes the sides of my wooden cabinets and knocks the doors open in a splintering explosion of devastation. Cups, bowls, and my favorite glass plates tumble onto the floor and shatter in a steady rhythm of heartbreak and destruction. Aghast and even more furious, I drop the coat rack, spin towards Ranma's current retreating position by my worn (and well-loved) sofa, and fume. I can't tell if he's angry, surprised, or terrified. We stand there for a good thirty seconds in an impromptu face-off before I bark sharply, "Get _out_."

She narrows her eyes meanly before spinning on her dainty man-heels and striding angrily out the door, slamming it heavily behind her. I wanted to cry. Not many people knew this particular fun fact about me, but I'm an angry crier. Once I get too frustrated or furious over something (or someone) my eyes tear up and I bawl in a slightly inconvenient, tremendously embarrassing display of emotion. I think on the merits of that particular idea for several minutes before turning back to my bathroom and returning to the running lukewarm water of the shower. I leave the front door unlocked.

* * *

My shower is short; my hopelessly mixed emotions lend themselves to my tears as I think about the women, Diana, and myself. What, if anything, could I have done differently? The temporary break-in and angry bout with Ranma had served as a well-needed distraction, but now my thoughts circled back to the case. I knew without a doubt that if I wanted to get this bastard I'd have to grow a pair for the rest of this case. This would be the last time Akane Tendo teared up. The last time I lost myself to my emotions. I think again of the ridiculous episode in my kitchen, wondering if Ranma would request a partner change after witnessing my emotional regression. I decided to call him to ask what it was he had thought important enough to trespass for.

Turning off the now cold spray, I grab my cherry-colored towels and wrap one around myself before using the other to ruffle my dripping hair. I rifle through my closet to find a pair of dark fitted jeans and a sweater before heading out into my demolished living-room and dialing Ranma's cell phone number on my home phone. I wait, listening to the ringing on my side of the line. I hear the faint echo of a phone ringing coming from outside my apartment. Weird. Walking toward my front door with the cordless phone pressed between ear and shoulder and a pair of boots in my hands, I open the door quietly and peer outside. Ranma and phone are camped out against the wall of the hallway to the right of my door. He looks sheepishly from the phone in his hand to my face, a faint blush decorating his cheeks. Or I guess I should say her cheeks, since the short red-headed girl staring up at me could definitely never be mistaken for a man.

"Can I maybe get some hot water?" She asked weakly, pressing a button on her phone that stopped the ringing and pushing herself off of the wall. I nod dumbly, retreating back into my apartment but leaving the door open for her to enter after me.

As I set a tea-kettle filled with tap water onto my stove top Ranma shuffles to a neutral spot against the wall, just next to the ruined cabinets. There's a noticeably awkward pause in which neither of us knows how to begin saying what we know must be said. I know I should apologize for overreacting, but the words stick like bitter paste in my throat. If there's one, (yeah, just one) personal thing I'd say I needed to improve on, it's apologizing. You'd think being an adult and all, I could handle talking about my feelings. I'm a woman for God sakes. It's what we're known for. But the idea of opening up to anyone, let alone a man I hardly know and might be a little intimidated of (as much as I hate to admit it), is synonymous in my mind to ripping my heart out of my chest while it still beats and dropping it in a bloody, heaping mass at his feet. Yeah, it would be that painful.

To my surprise, Ranma starts to speak first. I'm not sure what I expected him to say at this point. Maybe I was waiting for an apology for breaking into my apartment. Maybe an explanation of why he was here in the first place. What he did wind up saying, in the end, should probably have been featured in an edition of "The World's Worst-Timed Comments Ever Made". _If _that were a real list.

"You know, you're kind of psychotic. And maybe a little macho too." She adds while still rubbing the swelling bump on her forehead where I nailed her with the drinking glass earlier. In an effort to appear less uncomfortable than I actually was, I had started to fill a glass with water at the sink while Ranma started the conversation. At his comment however, my hand clenches the circumference of the cup in a grasp of such spasmodic anger that the silence following his statement is punctuated by the sound of splintering glass. So maybe I have some problems with managing my frustrations. That's what medication is for.

Ranma seems to understand what he's said a moment too late. Her lips part in a fearful, anxious kind of way, as if she is at that moment searching her mind for ways to take the words back. I manage to take a deep breath… and another. I reach the hand with the broken glass toward my countertop and manage, just barely, to peel my fingers away from its surface and let the ruined cup rest on its surface. Despite the fact that kitchen glasses serve as excellent objects in delivering blunt force trauma. Ranma watches this in silence, her eyes focused on the path of the glass and a small muscle twitching near her jaw.

"The water's ready."

She jumps a little at the unexpected sound of my voice amidst the silence, and jerks her hand toward the kettle blowing steam on my cook top. My expression is deadpan and I pride myself in sounding only half as pissed off as I actually feel. Looking at me apologetically, she tilts her head nearer the sink and upends the kettle over her petite form. My eyes try to function properly as I unbelievingly take in the heightening and flattening of her form as she shifts, once more, into a him. I try to understand how such a thing is possible. Because no matter how many times I see it happen, I feel I'll never get used to the idea. But I steadfastly remain silent, knowing that giving voice to my concerns will only make our relationship even more tense.

The excess water soaks into his already damp clothing and leaks onto my kitchen floor. "Thanks", he adds in a deep baritone that contrasts sharply with the sing-song quality of his female voice. I blink, gathering my thoughts as he watches me warily. However, I can't help voicing some of my curiosities over his… personal dilemma. I could start off with something subtle, and work my way into asking him what I _really_ want to know. I could…

"What are you staring at me for?" He asks uncomfortably.

"How did it happen?" I blurt. So maybe I've never been very good at subtlety.

Now it's his turn to blink. I guess he's used to more beating-around-the-bush. He _is _a Federal Agent, after all. I shuffle a bit, lean against the counter-top and clear my throat. And wait. He seems to be thinking about how, or if, to answer my question. At least he's not pretending to misunderstand. I hate it when people do that. He tilts his head toward my living area, (because "living room" is too grand an architectural reference to describe anything in my poor excuse for an apartment) and clarifies, "Can we sit for awhile?" I nod, and lead the way to the next room. I sit down and tuck my legs underneath me, keeping my bare feet warm. Ranma perches a little farther away from me than is maybe considered polite, his posture stiff and his butt barely gracing the edge of the cushions. Not that I was staring or anything.

Then he glances in my direction, notices my arched brow and the curiosity emanating from me in embarrassingly obvious waves, and settles back more comfortably into the pillows. Apparently we had a lot to discuss.


	7. Active Listening: It's Not for Everyone

Some People Just Aren't Cut Out for Active Listening

"To share our stories is not only a worthwhile endeavor for the storyteller, but for those who hear our stories and feel less alone because of it."

- Joyce Maynard

"So here we are" I announce to the silent room, still waiting with saint-like patience for Ranma to begin his tale. My boots lay forgotten at the foot of the sofa and my feet are curled beneath me as I sit with baited breath at the idea of _knowing_. I expect intrigue. _Adventure_. Sex and Rock 'n Roll for God's sake. What I get is this:

"Ever been to China?" His voice is light, even as his expression in stoic. Wondering at the unusual introduction and not able to see how it could relate to anything important, I shake my head. No, I haven't. I add, "I've never been outside the country." Just in case head-shakes were too vague a form of communication. I'm such an idiot. Well, this bit of useless personal information seems to have Ranma thinking, and once again I'm left to stew in frustrated curiosity. This was torture. If Ranma were a true girl, he'd have spit half the story up in a vomit-like spew of information by now. That's what most of my experiences had been so far anyways, limited as they were. I wasn't one for patient and kind third-party listening. And usually I took the wrong side.

He begins again, "You know my Dad." Again, I nod and add a meek "yes" to fill the thickened silence. Of course I knew Mr. Soatome. I knew he was crazy… I knew he was weird. I knew he was my boss and headed my entire department. All of these things were known to me. What I didn't know was_ why it mattered. _As you can tell, I'm not a very patient person.

"So when I was younger, I spent a lot of time travelling with Pops. He was training me, you know." I nodded, even though I'd had no idea. I didn't really even know what qualified as "training" him. Ranma seemed like he had the potential to be very dangerous, yes, but beyond that I couldn't even begin to guess what he could do. I thought back to our skirmish and the moment s(he) dodged my harrowing hat-rack blow. There was a quick and effortless grace about his movements that suggested extreme levels of martial arts experience. He was probably very, very good.

"We left my Mom when I was a few years old I guess, and I don't remember going back until I was about sixteen. We had just been to China…" Ah. Now I see. He paused, making sure I was still mostly on the same page. I didn't say anything this time, just held his gaze and waited. I got the feeling he didn't tell this story much. He sighed, "We went a lot of places, made a lot of mistakes… that's the best way to describe it I guess. We had a lot of enemies, and not very many friends. So it's easy to imagine that we didn't have a lot of offers of assistance. You know, food, shelter. The bare essentials were always pretty absent. And of course Pops never thought that far ahead. That's how he explained it anyways. I think he was just cheap.

Anyways, we would spend days in one place and then travel to the next spot. Probably a lot of the things he made me do would fall under the general label of 'inappropriate treatment of a minor'." At this his face warmed and a blush crested his cheeks. "That didn't come out the way it was supposed to." I snort at his embarrassment and gesture my hand in the air. Go on.

He takes his cue, a hint of blush still visible. I absolutely did not find it attractive. There was no hint of sympathy in the way I reacted to his story of lonely child mistreatment. I was stoic. Like a rock, but much better. Watching my minute reactions to the descriptions of his misadventures, Ranma continues for a long time about his and Mr Soatome's experiences that led them to a place called the Jyusenkyo, located in some obscure part of rural China. I couldn't tell you where it is, how to locate it, or even how to find it on Google Earth. Of course, Geography was never my strong suit in high school. Well, understatement. I didn't _have _any strengths in high school. But that's another story altogether.

He tries to explain this place of geographical mystery, insofar as much as it had "a bunch of pools of water with really long bamboo poles sticking out of them". On one side was a mountain leading up to a steep cliff, on the other a sign of mediocre size that was written in barely legible Chinese. That is, if you knew how to _read_ Chinese. Otherwise it was completely illegible. I took it upon myself to ask Ranma, "Did either of you know how to read it?" to which Ranma lowered his head, looked at his feet, and then back up at me.

"Nope."

I nodded, not really very surprised. I added, "Ok", and waited for him to get on with it.

"Well, turns out it was kind of an important sign." At this point, his gaze shifted away from me and looked toward my photo-clad wall. I can see from his profile that he's flushing again. His eyebrows are raised in inquisition and he looks on the verge of asking me a question. I wait, pretending to be patient. Right.

And then the fucking phone rings.

* * *

Neither of us moves immediately, not sure which phone it is. An explosive sigh escapes from my chest. "It's mine", I explain and reach for my belt where my phone is. After checking the caller ID I sigh again and click the accept button: "Yeah, what is it?"

"Hello to you too Sunshine". I can feel my blood-pressure rise at the sound of my sister's voice. My next sigh is directly into the phone, and very audible. "Sorry Nabiki. I'm just sort of in the middle of something. What's the occasion?" Nabiki is one of those family members that calls only on the rare chance that there's something you are able (and willing) to do for her. Last time was a blind date with a "fabulous" guy that she needed someone to take her place in on short notice. Suffice to say he was _not_ fabulous, and the term "blind-date" was actually a set-up for "babysit-one-of-my-coworkers-while-I-bang-the-boss-in-his-office". That was about two months ago, and I hadn't heard from her since. Granted, I almost threw her blackberry out a window and threatened to disown her children's children if she ever put me in another situation like that again. But really, she knows I would never. I _like_ kids. Sort of. She also pointed out that it wasn't legal.

"Can't I just call my baby sister for a little female-friendly chat every now and again?" Nabiki continues to wheedle. She had something up her sleeve. I can feel the enamel of my teeth grind against itself as I clench my jaw. "No. And no to whatever it is you want me to do. Find someone else to actively assist you in adultery." Looking across at Ranma, I can see he isn't even trying to feign disinterest. I stick my tongue out, ever the adult. He grins back. I turn my back on him and look up at the ceiling.

" And that's what I get for trying to be a good sister to you Akane. I mean really, I didn't _have _to call to check up on you. I could be getting my nails redone right now. Or buying myself a drink. Or pulling my feminine curlies out with needle-nose pliers. The list goes on." I roll my eyes, even realizing that my sister couldn't see my exasperation. I bite back, "Get real Nabiki, we both know there's nothing left for you to pluck." She laughed. Ranma looked confused. Serves him right for eavesdropping. I cover the mouth piece on the phone and suggest he go to the bathroom or beat his forehead against the wall.

"No thanks. I'm ok here." He responds complacently, and I give up trying to give him better life options and tune back into Nabiki's one-sided conversation. "So really though" I interrupt, "what is it you want?"

"I'm just checking up on you Sis. I know you've been ass-deep in that case with What's-his-face for a few months now… You know, that crazy guy… What was his name again?" She asks me innocently, and I growl "Nabiki…"

"And you know, I was just wondering how the situation was looking from your perspective. Speaking as a strictly neutral yet concerned third-party." She finishes easily and swiftly, before I get the chance to tell her to mind her own damn business. "You _know_ I can't talk to anyone outside of the department about my on-going cases. And the last person I would ever share confidential information with is _you _anyways." I feel rather than hear an electric response to my words. Brain fart. I should have just hung up once I realized she was after my case information. Better yet, I should have just left her to my voicemail. I basically just admitted that the case hadn't been resolved yet. Contrary to the media reports that were released just this morning.

"So who's there with you?" She asks in response, ignoring my earlier statement. Why was she so _good _at this? Right. Because it was her job. I stifle another sigh, "No one's here with me Nabiki. Just me and my bitter perspective on life." I shift a quick look at Ranma who's once again checking out the family photos. I think maybe he hadn't heard me, until I see the slight downturn of his mouth and the subtle way in which he cranes his neck in the direction of me and my phone call. Perfect. "Right", I say enthusiastically, "well, gotta go. Me and my empty apartment are going to go negotiate a sandwhich and a nap. You have a great day though." I press the end button on the phone, barely hearing the beginnings of an objection from the other side of the line before I'm able to hang up. "Great. That was fun. Ranma?" I ask, still not looking in his direction. He turns nonchalantly toward me once more, his ears perking up. "Yes?" he asks genially.

"Can you hurry up and finish this story? I'm not a very patient person."

* * *

"Sure thing. Where was I?" He ambles back over to his chair, kind of plopping back into the cushions. Obviously someone has relaxed. Listening to me try and navigate a conversation with my middle sister usually puts people at ease. It assures them of my incompetence. "You were telling me about Jusenkyo". He nods and resumes his story, starting with how he fell into a spring of cursed water and ending with… well, how he fell into a spring of cursed water. And then there's silence.

"So that's it then?" I ask unblinkingly, trying very hard not to throw something.

"Yup. That's it. And now here I am. Well, after years of informal and formal training and a few other misfortunes or two." He nods once, as if to emphasize the finality of his statement.

I refuse to be the one to break the silence, even though I realize this couldn't have been an easy conversation for him to share with me. I feel a little warmed. I'm not usually the one people come to with personal things. And don't get me wrong, it's not because I'm a bad listener. Not really. I think it just takes more than that. Like, if someone's going to voluntarily bleed their deepest fears and darkest thoughts in front of you, they expect a little collateral for it. They want you to be as vulnerable and invested in them as they are with you. No one wants to be the only fault-ridden human being in a relationship. No one really _wants _to feel exposed; they just _need _to every now and again. And that's something I don't know if I'll ever be able to do.

But that's a story for another time.

I almost start to feel some compassion for him then. I mean, it's literally just about to seep into my dopey, oversensitive heart like a sponge soaking up dirty counter water at a fast food restaraunt. And then he damns himself… He speaks.

"So… how do you actually go about aiding in adultery? It sounds kind of kinky."

The moment is lost, my thoughts of butterflies and feelings of rainbows are squashed beneath his big, clumsy metaphorical foot. I look at him steadily for a moment before replying, "You have no idea."

It was a bluff, of course. But why should he have to know that?


End file.
